Baron of Bad (Lords of Scandal 5)

Not sure what to say, the truth was the only thing that came to mind, and that was a ridiculously bad idea, she tipped the bottle to her lips, his hand still wrapped over hers, and took a generous swallow. Which was likely a mistake. It burned down her throat and she instantly began coughing, spraying him all over his chest with the amber liquid.

In response, he used his other hand to pound on her back, as she coughed and spluttered. “It tastes like fire,” she finally managed to gasp between choking breaths.

He chuckled as he stopped beating her back to wipe his shirt. “I said a small sip, love. No more.”

“I’ll never touch the stuff again,” she said. She wanted to say more. She’d like to begin by asking him to kiss her. What was it like? Would his kiss feel different from another man’s?

“You should get some sleep,” he said softly. “Tomorrow will be a long journey back to London.”

She nodded as she let go of the bottle, then sat on the bed to braid her hair. Her fingers worked the strands. She looked up to realize that Bad hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where she’d left him, still holding the bottle. “Is something wrong?”

“Your hair,” he mumbled, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long swig. Unlike her, he did not spit the liquid out.

“What about it?” she asked, watching his throat work. Why was that so appealing? She cocked her head as his Adam’s apple came back to the spot in the center of his neck. It was just so…masculine. “I know it isn’t proper to have it down. So much of this is…”

“It’s not that,” he said as he took another swig. “It’s the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh,” warmth spread through her from the compliment. Or perhaps that was the whisky. “Thank you.” She sat up straighter. She had several questions she wished to ask but she wasn’t certain how to begin. “Do men marry women because they like their hair or is the person more important?”

She didn’t want to tell him that she was asking because she wanted him but she wasn’t certain he felt the same in return. In any regard, she’d marry someone, likely very soon. This was a good opportunity to do a bit of research.

He took another long drink. “Man

y men have married a beautiful woman they didn’t really like simply because she was attractive.”

She nodded her head, wanting to ask more. Was he one of those men? Then her own questions began to filter in. Did she want to marry him? Was that why she’d asked? She knew she wanted to touch him. That was for certain.

And he made her feel safe, protected. He was titled, and so attractive she ached from need. And…he kept her on her toes. She found she quite liked that. So many men were a bore. “Thank you for answering.” Then she snuggled down into the covers closing her eyes. He was right. The whisky’s giddy warmth was settling like a blanket over her limbs.

“Why did you ask?” his weight settled next to hers on the bed as he sat by her feet.

She didn’t open her eyes as she let out a yawn. She couldn’t tell him all that she’d just thought. He’d likely run from the room screaming. Not only was he a confirmed bachelor but he didn’t like her. Though apparently, that wasn’t much of a determining factor for men. “Well, despite your assertion that I take my time, when I return to London, I’m going to have to find a husband very quickly after this little adventure or risk having no one at all,” she said. “Do you know of any lords who are looking? Could you tell them about my hair?”

* * *

Sharp, hot jealousy coursed through him, far stronger than the whisky he’d guzzled down.

He’d like to rage that no other man would ever touch her. He wanted to slide his body along hers and curl her up in the hollow of his, where she’d be safe and secure against the hard ridges of his muscles.

She’d asked if a man would marry a woman he didn’t like. He wanted to ask if a woman like her would marry a man who was beneath her if he made her feel safe enough. There was always the possibility that a match between them would be forced. They’d spent the night together. But he didn’t mention that either. He was more adept at drinking so he held his tongue.

She let out a deep breath, the sort that told him she was drifting into a deep sleep. He relaxed back along the foot of the bed, taking one more swig of whisky before he set the bottle to the side. Then he leaned back against the wall, her feet pushing into his hip. He closed his eyes. He had no intention of sleeping, he just wanted to rest. Try to recover before the long day tomorrow.

There was little chance that Grace would ride in the carriage, and frankly, he didn’t blame her. But that did mean she was going to spend the day pressed to his side once again. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

A clock bell dinged somewhere in the distance and he counted eleven chimes. He slid to the side so that his head was on the bed, and even though his feet hung off, he couldn’t complain. He’d meant it. When you’d slept on a cold stone step, this was quite comfortable.

He didn’t mean for it to happen but at some point, he drifted off into a light sleep.

He had no idea how much time had passed but it was pitch black when a whimpering sound woke him from his slumber. The room was dark and Bad struggled to see anything at all.

Another whimper filled the room and then a keening cry. He blinked trying to clear the fog from his brain. “Bad?” Grace called. “Bad. Are you there?”

“I’m here,” he answered but she didn’t respond, only whimpered again.

“Bad. Please. Please help me.”

Bloody hell, she was talking in her sleep and she was having a nightmare. He scooted up the bed, drawing his body along hers. “Grace, wake up. I’m here.”